A blog by a rapid-cycling bipolar for other bipolars, friends, family, caregivers, and those with morbid curiosities pertaining to the mentally ill.

15 August 2011

Upstanding Member of Society

I'm still experiencing mixed episodes. I'm getting so sick of the lows, sick of my own thoughts, memories, dreams (when I can sleep) and this messed up sleep pattern I've found myself in... awake at 5 p.m. asleep at 6 a.m. I'm sick of being in my own skull, my own skin. I'm sick of being me. I'm sick of never catching a break.

I'm unemployable, even without the piercings. If I could land a job I wouldn't be able to hold it down and attend college at the same time... hell I just wouldn't be able to hold it down. Even the nurse practitioner/therapist said I'd have a hard time holding down jobs.

I can't get help in the form of disability (trying for the 3rd time but not holding my breath) or vocational rehabilitation since you have to have a job for voc rehab to help you. I don't have the GPA (thanks bipolar) to work on campus 20 hours a week. I need to concentrate on classes this semester. I need a 3.5 every semester from here on out. I need to retake some F's and D's which means waiting around for the classes to be offered again. I'm never going to graduate.

I haven't heard from Dave for over a week, closer to two. He knows it drives me nuts when he doesn't call me, and I end up rummaging through all of the obituaries I can find just to see if his name is in there. I thought he understood the hell it puts me through to not hear from him, and how it makes me feel like I'm just a piece of ass to him, nothing important, nobody worthy of his love, nobody worthy of a phone call just to say hi, I'm OK.

I'm looking forward to classes starting up again, but I'm also reserved. It isn't a matter of "if" the bipolar is going to kick in and wreak havoc on my classes, it's a matter of "when." I need to work on revising my autobiography and try to get it published within a year too. I need to work on my historical fictions. I need to work on my epic poem about Boudicca's revolt. I need to do a lot of things.

I need to be a part of society, but that's never going to happen. I'm always going to be an outsider, a loser, the one who falls through every left-wing crack known to man. If Dad were to keel over tomorrow I'd be on the streets, homeless, jobless, with no chance of getting a job. All because I had to be born fucked in the head.